ALEX RIDER AND THE COUNT OF MOLDOVA
by baked bean
Summary: Far away, on the bracken coast of Moldova, Alex Rider meets his most daring challange yet the sinister plots of Count Timal...
1. Chapter 1

Alex Rider leaned back in his cushioned chair and looked out of the window.

Thousands of feet below him, the sea was roaring ferociously, sending colossal waves crashing and erupting on the coarse rocks that lay amongst the ocean bed. Through the window, Alex could see torrents of rain lashing down, some hammering on his window, as if demanding to be let in.

Alex, however, was warm and dry, seating in a comfortable chair in the first class area of a _British Airways _plane, reading a book. He was on his way to Moldova, as some rich Count had been stirring up some tension, and Alan Blunt, the head of MI6, needed a fourteen year old boy to investigate, as the Count was offering up a holiday for a child to show he wasn't bad.

So who better for the job than Alex Rider?

"Can I take your order, please?"

The voice was soft and charming, and Alex turned his head to see a tall air hostess smiling at him. Her uniform was pure white, with some patches of deep blue, and no stains in sight anywhere. Her hair was brushed back in a tight bun that you would have thought would explode any second.

"Oh, no thanks, I'm not hungry yet," replied Alex. He was telling the truth, as he had eaten at the airport just two hours before.

"Alright," said the air hostess, and she turned on her heel and walked away.

Alex noticed with a smile that she was wearing thin stiletto heels, and he was surprised she didn't drill a hole in the floor.

Alex sank back in his chair and let the cushions embrace him. He would need his energy. Alex Rider closed his eyes and drifted into a warm sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

While Alex was resting in a brief escape of sleep, trouble was being mixed up hundreds of miles away, in Chisinau, the capital of Moldova.

A man walked onto the airport landing, a few drops of rain pattering onto hair face and hair – or what was left of it. His blank eyes were hidden behind black sunglasses, so black you could not see the pupils that were watching the Cessna plane whirling around in the dense sky, as if uncertain to land, knowing what kind of man was waiting for him beside the landing strip.

The man's name was Count Timal. Long ago, he had been a measly peasant living on the streets of Chisinau, but he had struck it lucky.

Some fat American tourists had walked – or rather lumbered; they were so fat – out of a shop clutching five hamburgers, with cheese and lettuce. One of the tourists was clutching a lottery ticket, holding it with a vice-like grip so no one would steal it from him.

None of the three Americans had noticed the lorry speeding towards them. The driver, a man named Barry Krasner, was speeding about 10mph over the land speed record, for he was in a hurry to get home. One of the Americans was killed; the other two were missed by a hairs breadth.

The driver was now in a lunatic centre. He had gone crazy, for he had never killed anyone before, and now knew what it felt like.

The other two Americans flew home immediately – after the burial – and neither of them had noticed the lottery ticket slip out of their dead comrade's hand.

But Timal had. And it had won him fifty million Moldovan Leu… the equivalent to twenty million pounds.

He had built a grand palazzo high up in the mountains, where it is cold and rained a lot. He had also built his very own airplane landing strip, as when he was a child he fantasised of being a pilot – impossible without any proper education.

And now, ten years later, here he was, doing business with the Chinese.

The plane landed, and five people got out. Two were business men, dressed in black suits cut from the finest material. The other three were body guards, all of them armed with sub-machine guns. All of the guards were alert, ready to fire at a moments notice.

"Do you have the money?" demanded one of the Chinese businessmen, a person called Hueng Wu.

Timal smiled, showing all of his teeth. Wu drew back, surprised and horrified. Timal's teeth were a sickly yellow, a few turning a nasty shade of black. He evidently wasn't the type who brushed his teeth. Wu had seen better teeth in a dog.

"Yes, Wu, I do have the money. All twenty thousand Leu." Timal handed Wu a black suitcase. It was heavy, so Wu handed it to his body guard.

"And your part of the bargain?" Timal asked. His eyes narrowed, as if expecting nothing. But Wu did not see it behind the sunglasses.

"Yes, of course," the other Chinese man said. He was called Long Cheng, and he was considerably smaller than Hueng. He handed Timal a large package.

"One hundred and thirty of the best Chinese and Japanese guns, recently developed. All loaded. Spare cartridges inside."

"Thank you, gentlemen," said Timal. "A pleasure doing business with you. Now, if you please, leave my land. I am late for a tea party."

The Chinese bowed and got back into their plane. One it was in the air, rising over a dark lake, Wu opened the briefcase.

The explosion was so loud you could have heard it from Alex's plane. The plane disappeared in a ball of flame which licked its way to the tail. The plane stayed for a second in the air, as if comically suspended, then spiralled towards the lake.

Timal began to laugh. What the Chinese had not known was that instead of money he had placed a bomb, a special type of bomb that reacted with air. When the Chinese businessmen opened the briefcase, a fuse went off and that was the end of them.

Timal looked at the smouldering wreckage once, then turned on his heel and walked back to his palazzo.

Meanwhile, two hundred miles away, Alex Rider's plane had just come in to land.


End file.
